The Rustic One

“You blithering bastard, you cantankerous old goat, can’t you see I am full up to my neck in the berries?” He did see now, sheepishly he rushed over to help his wife who although at times had the sharpest tongue in at least 300 miles around, was at the end of the day sturdy, trustworthy and dependable. Grabbing the heavy woven basket bursting with tart blackberries, he glanced at her appearance, deep purple and red stains covered her hands and apron like ink blotches, hair an auburn mess and trousers dusted with earth as dark as coco powder. He smiled thoughtfully and in return received a raised eyebrow and a certain upturned middle finger, which meant he was not quite out of the doghouse. Swinging open the creaking wooden screen door, they entered the enclosed porch, the wonderous, scrumptious scents of roasted peppercorn crusted pork shoulder set their mouths watering and tummies rumbling.